"If such is to be the turn of fortune," said Charost, with more seriousness than before, "I can only say that the kindly feelings will not be one-sided."
And now the conversation became an animated discussion on the chances of success or failure. Each party supported his opinion ably and eagerly, and with a degree of freedom that was not a little singular to the by-standers. At last, when Charost was fairly answered by the Bishop on every point, he asked:
"But what say you to the Army of the North?"
"Simply, that I do not believe in such a force," rejoined the Bishop.
"Not believe it—not believe on what General Humbert relies at this moment, and to which that officer yonder is an accredited messenger! When I tell you that a most distinguished Irishman, Napper Tandy—"
"Napper Tandy!" repeated the Bishop, with a good-humored smile; "the name is quite enough to relieve one of any fears, if they ever felt them. I am not sufficiently acquainted with your language to give him the epithet he deserves; but if you can conceive an empty, conceited man, as ignorant of war as of politics, rushing into a revolution for the sake of a green uniform, and ready to convulse a kingdom that he may be called a major-general; only enthusiastic in his personal vanity, and wanting even in that heroic daring which occasionally dignifies weak capacities—such is Napper Tandy."
"What in soldier-phrase we call a 'Blaque,'" said Charost, laughing. "I'm sorry for it."
What turn the conversation was about to take I can not guess, when it was suddenly interrupted by one of the Bishop's servants rushing into the room, with a face bloodless from terror. He made his way up to where the Bishop sat, and whispered a few words in his ear.
"And how is the wind blowing, Andrew?" asked the Bishop, in a voice that all his self-command could not completely steady.
"From the north, or the northwest, and mighty strong, too, my Lord," said the man, who trembled in every limb.